


Love's Curse

by dracofiend



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-16
Updated: 2008-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:41:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24136762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracofiend/pseuds/dracofiend
Summary: Turns out, failureisan option.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Comments: 4
Kudos: 37





	Love's Curse

“It’s…it’s,” the vexed healer stammered, fumbling with his wand. Through the haze of his longing, Harry felt sorry for him. “It. Well.”

“Speak! Or shall I loosen your fool tongue for you?” Professor Snape was not in Harry’s line of sight, but it didn’t matter. Harry could sense him from where he’d been half-sedated to the bed. With every soundless blink, with every prickle in his skin—Harry could sense him. 

“I—we can’t explain it, sir,” the healer rushed to say. “We can’t understand how or when it happened, or even the—”

“So he’s a werewolf,” Snape snapped, and Harry’s chest lurched. The ache lodged in his torso pitched high all at once, and Harry thought dimly he couldn’t remember how long he’d had it. An eternity, it felt like.

“No no,” the healer was saying, shaking his head. “No, he’s not—”

“A vampire then,” Snape interrupted bluntly.

“Oh no, sir,” the healer answered, “nothing like that.” A distant part of Harry wanted to laugh because he could hear the professor’s sneer underlying the brusque tone—Snape was being _sarcastic_ and the healer was so nervous he’d missed it completely. But Harry couldn’t smile—his entire being was overweighted with sadness.

“He’s not been attacked by any Dark creature—that is, he may have been, although it’s beside the point—and our examinations haven’t shown—”

“Then he’s been restricted to the bed for the amusement of your staff,” Snape broke in coldly.

From the edge of his vision, Harry watched the healer pale. The healer was still, dumbstruck—then he lashed back in an instant, features twisting as he returned with a clipped, “Of course not! He appears to be under the influence of a love potion, _sir._ ” The healer paused, glaring, then continued just as quickly, “Or possibly a geis, or a curse—it’s an enchantment of some kind, but we haven’t traced its—”

The rustle of robes, steps muffled by the floor, quickened Harry’s pulse. He waited, tensing in his gown, tremulous. His hands went cold; his stomach went sick.

“A curse is most likely,” Snape said.

“Professor, please don’t,” came the healer’s urgent voice, as Harry perceived Professor Snape at his bedside.

It was disorienting, to find himself in the presence of the figure from his dreams, true in every detail and yet undeniably altered. It was Professor Snape as Harry had once known him, with his etched-on scowl, his many-buttoned robes, his beaky nose protruding from thick strings of hair—and yet, it wasn’t. 

The very sinews in his limbs stretched to beyond their rightful lengths as Harry looked up and let his gaze rest mutely on the man with that awful yearning spreading through him, like the sun. 

“Snape,” Harry said after a moment.

The man’s eyes narrowed at once, and Harry’s throat constricted.

“He’s—” Snape began harshly, whipping his head aside, but the healer was there, looking at Harry with a furrowed brow. Harry’s eyes remained upon Snape, because the idea of looking away hadn’t entered his brain.

“Yes,” the healer said, regaining his clinical aspect. “He’s fixed on you. That’s why we’ve been keeping him isolated—we weren’t certain whether exposure to you or to others might exacerbate his condition.”

“The Dark Lord’s parting gift,” Snape muttered, his lip curling up. Harry watched it rise and felt his stomach twist. He wanted to feel that curl beneath his hand—ah, but that was not possible. The ache shifted over his lungs; his stomach rolled and roiled. Professor Snape was here! Professor Snape was out of reach. The longing seized his belly tight and was riding up his spine, flushing to his fingers, swelling in his mouth, rendering every quiet breath headier and more painful than the last. 

“What do you mean?” the healer demanded. “You-Know-Who did this?”

Snape didn’t answer. In the fast-diminishing sensible part of his mind, Harry wasn’t surprised.

***

“Why did Voldemort do this?”

Snape’s wand paused in its motion over the tiled floor. Then it continued, drawing invisible runes onto sterile glinting white.

“The Dark Lord had a weakness for petty spite,” Snape replied curtly. “As you may recall.” He expressed no shock at hearing Harry speak aloud for the first time in weeks.

Harry watched the man carry on with the runes. It was another bizarre ritual; one in a string of heretofore unsuccessful procedures that Snape had undertaken because the world would give him no peace until he’d severed all connection—all alleged _obligation_ —to Harry Potter. He’d announced this in a scathing hiss after storming in the first day, and over the remnants of crumbled elation, Harry had nodded wordlessly.

Harry swallowed, finding the air between himself and Professor Snape was somehow thicker than it ought to be. He often felt this way when Snape was in the room. He thought he should’ve gotten more used to it by now. 

“I mean,” Harry tried again, schooling his fat tongue, “why this particular curse? Why didn’t he choose something worse?”

The man had finished one arch of runes and had turned facing Harry to begin another. He frowned but didn’t glance up. “Worse? Examine your thoughts, if you’ve any left.”

Harry was gazing at the haggard valleys in Snape’s face, concern mounting at the sight of his professor’s careworn air. With each visit, Snape’s fatigue and dissatisfaction became more evident. Harry’s fingers jerked in his lap, eager to touch, to soothe. He forced his hands to lay flat against his knees. Snape would never allow it.

“My own belief,” Snape went on, much to Harry’s happiness (for the sound of Snape’s voice was a rare and wonderful prize), “is that the Dark Lord found it a fitting punishment for you, who had been trumpeted so loudly as being made practically invincible by love. Perhaps he wanted to familiarize you with the ravages of that instrument.” Snape’s mouth turned wryly. “He did possess a certain appreciation of situational irony.”

Snape fell quiet again, intent on drawing the runes, and the pressure in Harry’s chest, which eased whenever Snape neared him or talked to him, returned. It was always the worst in the first few seconds; Harry bit his lip, waiting for it to subside into the dull ache he knew so well. He was resigned to carrying it forever, and to be honest, it didn’t seem an entirely bad thing. He wasn’t sure he wanted to forget what it was like to _feel_ this way about Snape. The fact that Snape could never feel it back—well, that was a pity and a crying shame—but it wouldn’t change anything for Harry. It just meant he’d never be exactly settled or right, without Snape. But that was okay. He’d manage.

“So you’ve finally seen fit to open your mouth,” Snape said, still focused on his work. “What a privilege.”

Harry’s heart thumped—he wanted nothing better than to rush over to Snape and press close against him. Close himself in those robes, cover himself with buttoned sleeves, lose himself to the warmth and willowy weight of Snape. Harry straightened abruptly, his body acting to realize his most earnest desire before he could stop it. 

He took a breath and stopped it.

“I—” he began, struggling against his feeling. He called upon his equally strong urge to refrain from upsetting Snape, and was victor. “I was afraid of saying something stupid.”

Snape snorted. “Obviously, an effect of the curse.” The edge of his lip seemed to lift in amusement. “Perhaps the Dark Lord’s curse was a blessing in disguise.”

Something in Harry surged as he watched Snape smirk. “I love you,” he said.

It froze Snape’s wrist. “Another effect,” he said grimly, after a pause. His face clouded over and the motions of his wrist became rigid and brisk. 

The shuddering glory of relief that had come over Harry whilst saying it dissipated instantly, replaced by a crackling misery that was hardly bearable. Quickly Harry decided he’d never say it again, because while the constant lingering yearning cut deep, it was at least gentle. This sensation was sharp, piercing to the gut; it stole the wind from Harry’s words as he murmured, “I’m sorry.”

“Silence becomes you,” Snape snapped, so Harry resolved to be silent. He curled his knees to his stinging chest and dug his fingers into his arms, and told himself it would please Professor Snape if he stopped staring. But he hadn’t the strength to do that, too.

***

“Potter. Potter!”

With a Herculean effort, Harry pushed his eyelids open. Beams from the overhead lights jabbed into his eyes; he clamped them shut again and forced his head to the side, making a noise of protest in his throat, which hurt.

“How do you feel?” Snape’s dark eyes were quite close, and anxious, Harry could see when he’d cracked open his eyes again. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, but Snape’s creased brows stood out with perfect clarity against his drawn countenance.

“Um,” Harry responded, his throat paper-dry. He always went dizzy when Snape peered at him like this, with his face thrust near. Harry looked at the man’s mouth, flaked and unappealing, then met Snape’s gaze, absorbing the fullness of Snape’s worry. It was heavy, even smothering, and for a fleeting second of happy madness, Harry pretended it was all for him.

“About the same,” he replied.

Snape’s eyes dropped away, in disgust.

“Another failure,” he snarled, the ends of his oily hair flicking out as he spun from where Harry lay. “How can it be?” he was muttering angrily. “How can it be that I cannot undo it? There’s always a way—no love magic has yet been fashioned without a means of reversal…”

Harry listened to Professor Snape’s mutterings, and gradually pushed himself up from the floor. His right palm was tender on the tile as he leaned upon it—because the potion had been _hot,_ he suddenly remembered. It had boiled in its beaker when Harry started to drink, frothing over the top and down Harry’s throat, burning his hand, the lining of his mouth…

“…nullification method could I have overlooked?” Snape’s voice paused, as did his steps, at the other end of the room.

Harry swallowed gingerly. His throat twinged slightly, but it didn’t feel scalded, as it should have. Faintly, he wondered why.

Vials clinked from above; Snape had resumed mumbling to himself. “…accounted for the delay; perhaps the essence of burdock was too vigorously filtered…”

His words trailed off. Harry rested, waiting for the strength to pool again in his legs. By now he’d seen Professor Snape’s face distort that way many times over—compressing with disappointment and frustration at finding Harry’s sentiments unchanged. The first time, Harry’s distress had been violent—Snape had roared at him to shut up when the senseless pleas and apologies had burst from Harry’s lips, garbled, unrecognizable. The despair had since settled into a much quieter thing, flaring to unreasoning pain now and again, when Snape’s eyes fell on Harry and filled with utter aversion.

“Sorry,” Harry said, heaving himself to a knee. That much, he had learned, wouldn’t set Snape off. 

“It’s nothing to do with you,” Snape snapped. “I’ve gone over every possibility—” He broke off, his robes whisking the floor as he crossed the room and stooped, hauling Harry to his feet, murmuring in an undertone. “There’s something I’m not seeing, some obscure enhancement or some adjustment I haven’t made…the most minor of details can be all the difference…”

Frowning to himself, he released Harry’s arm. Harry let out his breath, the blood returning to the place where Snape had been gripping him. 

_I love you,_ he said, without opening his mouth. “Can I—is there anything I can do to help?” he asked.

“Yes,” Snape answered immediately, sounded irritated. “Don’t help. We’ve discussed this before, Potter, there’s nothing in your—” He stopped mid-sentence, glancing over, and was beside Harry the next instant. Harry had wavered when his vision had grayed; Professor Snape was supporting him. Cradling him. Harry shut his eyes.

“What is it?” Snape asked. His tone was sharply inquisitive and Harry knew Snape was thinking of the potion to fix things so no one would harass him about Harry Potter anymore, that it was purely for this reason that Snape’s voice was so low, so taut and at his ear. 

Harry wanted to turn his face inward, to Snape. He told himself Snape was waiting for an answer.

“My eyes went funny,” he said, evenly enough. “Things went spotty. Blurry at the edges.”

Snape drew air in through his nose and expelled it just as swiftly. Harry felt the warmth against his neck. 

“Hmm,” Snape hummed, tilting his head away, sinking into his own contemplations. Harry remained quite still, the vibration in Snape’s throat sending sympathetic ripples through Harry’s fingertips. 

“Sir?” Harry asked when several moments had passed. He’d controlled himself well, and it gave him courage. “If I may?” He shifted his body.

Professor Snape reacted at once, looking over, unknitting his brows, releasing him and stepping back with an alacrity that had Harry smiling, sadly. 

“Of course,” Snape replied, frowning at him with a distracted air. “Yes, of course.” He swept past Harry, moving purposefully toward his chopping board and cauldron.

***

“Focus on it, Potter, _focus_ —”

“I’m trying, sir, oh I’m trying—”

“No, you’re—don’t lose the—use your _mind!_ ” Snape bellowed.

“I AM!” Harry shouted, his eyes squeezed so tightly lights blinked in his lids, his hands squeezed so tightly that Snape’s fingers crunched. Snape let out a thundering _Potter!_ , not because his palms were being mashed to a bony pulp by Harry’s winching grip but because Harry was slipping, he’d found the thread but he was slipping—he couldn’t follow the rope Snape had crafted in his head, the heuristic for capturing Harry’s curse-induced love. 

Harry’s head thudded; his lungs had stopped seconds ago—he groped frantically in his mind for the exit sign but all he felt was Snape— _Snape_ —hammering in his veins, hot in the tears that were leaking from his eyes, hard in his fists that clutched knuckles and nails. 

“No Potter, NO!” Snape cried as Harry stumbled. “ _Legilimens!_ ”

Harry’s mind resisted on reflex, shoving through Snape’s which was clear, clear! The way out opened like a door in the sky. Harry reached for it—his feet lifted to the clouds—

and falling, he fell. He fell into Snape, collapsing into ribs, knees into knees, feet kicking shins as they collided with the ground.

There was raspy breathing. Sweat singed Harry’s left eye. 

“Potter,” Snape said, his voice unbroken though his chest flexed and hollowed rapidly beneath Harry’s collar.

 _I tried,_ Harry answered, with the dregs of his mind.

Snape’s torso heaved mightily for a few moments more. “Right,” he said slowly, pushing himself upright to lean against the metal leg of the bed. “How do you feel?” He sounded infinitely weary. 

Harry was slumped full against Snape; his cheek had slid to an awkward place above the man’s belly. His glasses were somewhere; his face disliked the buttons. 

“About the same,” Harry mumbled, knowing Snape knew.

Snape’s answering sigh was strained. “Just so.” 

Harry sat up. Or he tried to; he’d made it most of the way when the bloodrush foiled him, bowing his spine so the damp skin of his forehead touched the damp skin of Snape’s. Snape’s head was hanging, draped in lank hair, and Harry caught himself, putting up a palm, finding the shallow in Snape’s sagging chest. Something beat lightly into the heel of Harry’s hand. He looked but couldn’t see it; he could only feel it there.

“Alohomora,” he murmured to it, as if the heart could hear.

“Ah,” Snape breathed. “Ha. Aha ha.”

Harry quickly raised his head, keen for a glimpse of Snape’s smile. It was humorless—Harry could tell by the way the usually loose skin below his chin was stretched, as Snape’s face was upturned to the unforgiving white of the hospital room ceiling. 

The black eyes dropped down, fastening on Harry. “Back to basics, Mr. Potter?”

Harry’s hand curled shut in the divot of Snape’s chest. He wanted—how dreadfully he wanted—

“You exceed the bounds of magic,” Snape said. He raised a hand, which hung for a moment, curled in the air, to match Harry’s. Then the stringy fingers opened, taking hold of Harry’s wrist that lay on Snape’s robes, to lift it away. 

***

Harry did his utter fighting best—but it was as if every last hair in his skin was tugging to come free as he lay under the sheet, in the cool dark of his room. He focused, without frowning, on keeping his eyes closed and his breathing unbroken. 

He couldn’t help himself.

“Professor,” he said. It was surprisingly coarse. He cleared his throat. “I know you’re there.”

A rustle from near the door was the only reply he got. 

“Is something wrong?” Harry had opened his eyes but hadn’t moved otherwise, because if there had, in fact, been something wrong, he would’ve sensed it, the same way he’d sensed Snape’s arrival in his sleep. It was like a tingling, a chiming somewhere in his head, or maybe his chest—like an alarm clock stuck inside, only very much nicer. 

The rustle came again, closer. A pleasant warmth filled Harry—he wriggled his toes and smiled at the invisible ceiling.

“Nothing,” said Snape, and Harry closed his eyes again. Under goose-prickling flesh, his blood was flitting swiftly. There was shuffling, wooden scraping—Snape was taking a chair. “I’ve informed the staff that I’ve exhausted every avenue, and there’s nothing more to be done about your condition.” He paused. “I believe you’ll have the option of remaining here under long term care, or being sent on your merry way.”

Harry blinked. That seemed—like a bad thing, a horrible thing because wouldn’t that mean Snape had no more reason to come, that Snape had failed in ridding himself of—Harry pushed the thought away. Snape didn’t seem unhappy—that was all that mattered. 

“How do you feel?” Snape asked. 

“I’m—all right,” Harry said, turning now to look at the indistinct shape, a black lump by his bed. He let his vision adjust; Snape’s eyes glinted back. “About the same,” he added, hoping, irrationally, that Snape would know what he truly meant.

The glinting eyes shifted as Snape inclined his head.

“How do _you_ feel, Professor?” Harry suddenly asked. Perhaps, if it hadn’t been dark and he’d been able to see Snape clearly, the wan distaste in the deep lines of his face, he would’ve been able to hold his damned love-stricken tongue. The buttoned robes rustled, as if bristling at the question. Harry winced, on reflex.

“I feel,” Snape said, with an interesting gravity in the tone of his voice, “that the time has come for drastic measures.” He arched an eyebrow down at Harry, who could see it despite the darkness because Snape’s face was so pale. “There is no cure,” Snape continued, more abruptly. “There may, however, be treatments.”

Harry turned to Snape’s outline and gazed wonderingly at him. “Treatments?”

“Of a fashion,” Snape said immediately. “If you’re willing.”

“Yes,” he replied, trying not to sound painfully in love by virtue of Voldemort’s incantation.

“Very well,” Snape returned briskly. “Then once you’ve been discharged you’ll come directly to me.” He rose and Harry watched the outline narrow into streams of black—a white cuff flashed for the briefest of instants.

“Is there really no cure?” he blurted out, desperate for Snape to stay, even a little longer. He knew, though, he musn’t give in to the urge to scramble from bed—Snape had said tomorrow. Tomorrow! He would go to Snape. 

The man stopped; the sallow triangle of his nose pointed to Harry. “You hope for one?” His voice was a sliver, almost faint, inquisitive. It made Harry recoil—and he felt the touch of Snape’s thought.

“No,” Harry answered at once, now focusing all his strength on keeping absolutely still, still, to let Snape touch, just softly, at the front, Snape could come in closer, anything he liked…

Snape let his Legilimency lapse and Harry was sitting, reaching for Snape’s sleeve, good intentions cast aside like his hospital bedsheet. His hand was on Snape’s elbow, which was wonderfully real—until Snape extracted it with a soundless shrug of his arm. 

Harry could’ve wept; or laughed, out loud, at himself. Then Snape’s palm was on his shoulder, pushing him back to his still-warm bed; Snape was rearranging the sheet and pulling it up.

“I’m almost entirely certain,” he said, very lowly and distinctly, “that you will never be free of this.” He folded back the sheet across Harry’s chest. His eyes at this range were perfectly, terrifying clear. “But its effects, perhaps, may be…brought within—or at least near—the realm of tolerance.” 

He rested a palm at the side of Harry’s face, then drew back and turned promptly to the door.

Harry couldn’t manage his _Okay_ until five full minutes later, when Snape had long gone and he was left alone in his room with his unbelieving pulse and his unkempt imaginings. The next day, he hadn’t slept, but he did as he’d been told, and it turned out, in the end, that Snape was absolutely correct. Harry went to Snape, and in all their fine and unfine days, he never was cured.


End file.
